


War Materiel

by x_los



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-28
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-20 07:33:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1502006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/x_los/pseuds/x_los
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Delgado Master/Brigadier (hypnotised?), the Doctor watches." I really wanted this page of the meme done, and this was the ONLY outstanding prompt, and so I took this hit. (a tidied old b_e kink meme fill) (original here: <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/best_enemies/13938.html?thread=227442#t227442">http://community.livejournal.com/best_enemies/13938.html?thread=227442#t227442</a>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	War Materiel

**Author's Note:**

> Title: War Materiel  
> Author: [](http://x-los.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://x-los.livejournal.com/)**x_los**  
>  Rating: NC-17  
> Pairing: Three/Delgado!Master, Brigadier/Delgado!Master  
> Summary: "Delgado Master/Brigadier (hypnotised?), the Doctor watches." I really wanted this page of the meme done, and this was the ONLY outstanding prompt, and so I took this hit. (a tidied old b_e kink meme fill) (original here: <http://community.livejournal.com/best_enemies/13938.html?thread=227442#t227442>)  
> Beta: [](http://elviaprose.livejournal.com/profile)[**elviaprose**](http://elviaprose.livejournal.com/) , [](http://aralias.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://aralias.livejournal.com/)**aralias** (just for two paragraphs, she was rightly terrified of the rest)

***

The first time the Master visits the Doctor’s cell after he’s won, the Doctor is careful. He doesn’t goad him into anything. For the first time in all the Master’s visits, the Doctor keeps his body language in check. It gives nothing away, is hardly responsive at all. The Doctor’s words are spare, and don’t invite the arguments they like so much. Without specifically broaching the topic, the Doctor shuts the Master down.

The Doctor exhales in relief when he’s gone. He sits back down on the hard wooden bench he’s expected to sleep on, leaning against the wall and resting his head in his hands. Bits of vinyl and tufts of white plastic stuffing still cling to the strips of dried, gunky adhesive that line the bench’s edges. He expects the Master had some kind of cushion torn off the bench, in order to make an alternative berth that much more appealing. The man really does think of everything.

The Doctor snorts in the quiet dark of the cell and settles in for an uneasy night. He’s not going to be defeated by his body’s demand for comfort, for what it knows and what it likes. The Master should know that by now.

*

The second time, the Master comes simply to deliver a progress report. He curls his leather-gloved hands around the bars and, grinning, tells the Doctor everything. His tone ranges. He gloats over his defeated rival, then he’s too civil (‘cordial’ in a way that reminds the Doctor inescapably of the sickly-sweet syrupy candy of the same name). Then suddenly he’s confiding in his best friend about something that’s troubling him.

The riots in Paris have him somewhat at a loss. They sparked in the outer arrondissements and are moving in to the city’s ancient heart. The summer heat is rising and people are trapped in the city, not allowed to leave as a great many of them usually do (their absence generally making the city far more bearable for those who must stay). The Master’s urban containment policy is supposed to create immobile, controllable population centres. Haussmannization should make Paris easy to hold in check, just as it was intended to. But the Parisians have taken all their oil, their alcohol, their gasoline and stockpiled it in the individual arrondissements. Each one is now a little commune-country, protected by a barrier of fire that melts the Master’s Autons. The citizens can’t get out, but none of the Master’s forces can get in. They seem willing to starve themselves, to burn whole chunks of the city in their effort to defend it, and the Master can’t imagine what they’ll eat when they run out of cats and rats. It isn’t as if they can drink the Seine.

“You know this species,” the Master points out, tone detached and curious, “What do you think they’ll respond to? How am I to get them to be reasonable?”

The Doctor stifles his impulse to point out that trying to make the French ‘be reasonable’ is like herding cats, bless them.

“Let them go, for one,” he snaps. “And don’t dare look to me for complicity in your stupidity. I don’t want any part of it.”

The Master looks hurt, and the Doctor wonders briefly how a tyrant dares to have emotions--not egomaniacal rages, which the Doctor can deal with quite effectively. He's seen such explosions from a thousand petty despots, but none of those despots have ever looked so quietly, desperately disappointed. The Doctor has to watch the Master’s face as he takes the slight into himself, holds it for a moment, and pushes it back out as anger.

The egos of tyrants are, by and large, predictable in their deformity. As a breed they’re hugely self-assured, and this assurance has little to do with their actual abilities. Their perceptions of the world aren’t much affected by the actual state of things. The Doctor’s arguments are largely wasted on them. The Master’s self-confidence, on the other hand, is largely predicated on being damnably clever. He has a tendency to bounce back from disappointments, but he’s enormously reactive-- observant of and responsive to changes in the situation, adaptable. And he seems to listen to everything the Doctor has to say, even if he’s convinced he’s right nonetheless. The Master’s whole being seems to vibrate in the air between them in every conversation, to be infinitely easy to touch. It seeps into every aspect of their interactions, and the Doctor can’t move for moving him, one way or another. It feels as though parts of their bodies are connected to each other’s corresponding parts with a thousand invisible strings. Dealing with him for more than the duration of a brisk, violent encounter can leave the Doctor feeling clumsy, even cruel, for hurting the Master when he has such obvious power over him. But despite all of this, the way the Master tilts his head up, turns on his heel and leaves is dangerous. The Doctor wonders if, perhaps, he should have played nice.

*

And then the Master comes in briskly, stepping into the cell. He explains that the guards won’t hesitate to shoot the Doctor if he escapes, if he so much as incapacitates the Master, and oh, by the way—

“Undress.”

The Doctor can’t say he didn’t know it was coming.

“No.” He tilts his chin up, proud. “I will _not_.”

The Master scoffs and steps to him, reaching for his clothes. The Doctor twists out of his grasp and the Master’s eyes flare, and they’re struggling until the Doctor manages to fling himself away into the cell’s corner, breathing hard, eyes flashing.

“ _No_ ,” he shakes his head. “No.”

The Master is flushed--the Doctor sees the color rising in his neck, because he can’t look him directly in the face. Not bothering to straighten his clothing, the Master stalks out.

*

A few days elapse before the Master visits again. He curls his hands around the bars, as he did once before. The Doctor is lying on his cot, staring up at the ceiling, chasing patterns in the flecks in the tiles. He doesn’t turn to look at the Master when he walks in. The Master watches him for a long moment.

“I’m sorry.”

The Doctor, shocked, jerks his head to look at the Master, whose expression is proud but intent. The Doctor sits up. He knows his own expression of surprise must be comic--he has sometimes wished he had a face better-suited to seriousness, but it wasn’t his choice and it can’t be helped. He smooths a hand over his errant features, and waits.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” the Master continues. “Not to _you_. And I am.” His eyes find the Doctor’s, and the hypnotic intensity of them seems to _make_ the Doctor look at him, to make him acknowledge this. “Sorry,” the Master finishes.

The Doctor nods, and the Master takes a long breath. Almost despite himself the Doctor stands. He takes a few steps closer to the Master, who stands decently, respectfully, on the other side of the bars.

“It doesn’t have to be at all like that.” The Master’s voice hasn’t seemed so soft in centuries. “You and I,” he’s earnest, convinced and convincing, “We could—”

And the spell breaks for the Doctor. He turns his head away, giving the Master his profile. Saying nothing.

The Master can see he’s slipping away, and grows somewhat desperate. The sound of his voice is awful. It begins in frustrated reasonableness and crumbles into something near a plea, calling back something lost. “Oh _Theta_.” The Doctor flinches visibly at the word, and knows the Master can see him do it in the half-dark. That too, he knows distantly, is a bad idea.

“Don’t,” the Doctor says, weary. “Oh just _don’t_.” He turns his back to the Master and stares at the wall, listening to the other man walk away.

*

The Master has an Auton deliver the tape on the usual dinner tray. Around midday, when the Doctor feels close to dying of curiosity, more lackeys wheel in a television, complete with anachronistic VCR. The Master’s made a short trip, just to arrange this for him. The Doctor’s emotions are a jumble of flattery and foreboding, and the Doctor’s mouth twitches, because it’s terribly typical of the Master to inspire both with the same gesture.

The screen, when the Doctor slides the tape in, flicks from dull blue to some sort of home-video footage. The Doctor is pleased at least to see that Lethbridge-Stewart is apparently alive and, at least judging by appearances, well. He is also immediately wary. Why would the Master simply give him such a reassurance?

Then, unexpectedly, the Master steps into the frame, and the Doctor notes the unnatural way the Brigadier’s head swivels towards him. Expressionless. It’s difficult to tell, due to how poor the video copy is, but the Doctor thinks the Brigadier’s eyes too shining. He’s seen that look before, most recently when Jo, under the Master’s control, was trying her hardest to blow them all to bits.

What happens next is completely unexpected, and the Doctor freezes. His eyes widen, and he chokes a little.

“ _No_ ,” he mutters to himself, stricken. He wants to turn it off, but he has to _know_. Surely not. Surely the Master—not with a human, he tells himself. There’s simply no way. The Master considers them little more than apes, and the Master has his _pride_ , even when he has nothing else—certainly he thinks himself above using one of them in such a manner. The Doctor scrambles for reassurance that what appears to be happening on screen can’t be real. There are a thousand ways to manipulate visual information-- _though why would the Master bother?_ Far likelier that this is a simple recording of his oldest friend forcing another old friend to his knees and making him—

The Master clears his throat to announce his presence, and the Doctor’s head jerks around. He finds him leaning against the far wall of the hallway outside the Doctor’s cell, illuminated in the television’s flickering light.

Horrified, the Doctor turns back to the image on screen. It’s not pleasant sex by any definition. The Master’s not content with a hypnotized victim. He’s pinning the other man by the hair and pushing himself too far down his throat. Occasionally the Master on screen will dart a quick glance up to the camera and smile wickedly. It’s a staged performance of wickedness, the Doctor numbly realizes. Like a Drury Lane melodrama, intended for his own benefit. God knows what the Master actually--

“It would have been different, for you.” The real-time Master’s words drift, almost winsome, from the dark. “I could be gentle with you.” Almost reassuring himself. “I know I could.” A loud, choking gag sounds on screen. The Doctor winces. The Master doesn’t.

The Doctor reaches out with an unsteady hand and turns the television off.

“Every time you said no,” the Master answers the question the Doctor can’t bring himself to ask. “It got worse, the angrier you made me.” He pauses. Admits. “That’s not the most recent tape.”

“Is—”

“Oh, he’s still alive.” The Master makes a dismissive gesture. He steps forward into the full light from the hall, unlocks the Doctor’s cell and lets the door swing open. “Come along. We’re not doing this in here.”

The Doctor follows him and walks into the full sunlight, blinking. His eyes are weak from too many days in the dark. If going through with this might prevent what he just witnessed from happening again, then the Doctor has no choice but to try. But he also can’t know that his submission will keep the Master in line, even in this one respect. He’d believed something of the sort, centuries ago. And look at them now. Perhaps the trouble is that the Master won’t stop, or perhaps it’s that he truly can’t. The Doctor thinks of Paris burning, of futile strategies for control and resistance that burn both parties alive, of whether the difference between will and ability matters at all, and to whom. Certainly not to his poor friend, who should never have been involved in this, and wouldn’t have been, if not for knowing him.

In the suspiciously nearby bedroom (thankfully not the dreary office from the video—the Doctor thinks he might be ill if they stepped foot in there), the Doctor hesitates, and the Master’s eyes narrow.

“Do you really want to subject another of your little friends to the indignity of filling _your_ proper place?” the Master snaps, and the Doctor gets on with it. But when the Doctor’s hands rise to his buttons they’re shaking just a touch, and he fumbles the second, can’t quite draw it through the hole. The Master softens.

“Come here,” he orders softly. “Let me.” And when the Doctor sits down on the bed he straddles him, deftly undoing his shirt. He undresses the Doctor like he’s a child, gentle and chaste and reassuring. “There now,” as the chaste touch becomes a thorough exploration of the Doctor’s quaking torso, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“What was any of that,” the Doctor asks, “If not a deliberate attempt to hurt me?”

The Master stills, but then begins to stroke his arms. “Don’t talk back,” he says in a warning tone, before muttering, “what’s any of this ridiculous self-righteous denial been, if not the most intentional cruelty on your part? And hardly just cruelty to me--no, I’m far less interested in hurting you then you are in hurting yourself.” The Doctor opens his mouth to deny it, to answer.

“I said don’t talk back,” the Master pushes him down, in a sudden movement. The Doctor’s back is flat against the bed. “Not one word from you that isn’t the kind of thing you _know_ I’d appreciate hearing.”

And he kisses the Doctor’s lips gently, and laughs just a little. “I hardly know where to start,” he admits. “Oh, I want _everything_. Where should you like to begin?”

“I don’t know,” the Doctor offers angrily and brokenly, but quickly amends himself when the Master’s expression darkens. He quickly reaches up and pulls the Master tight to his chest. “Whatever you’d like.” He gives a wavering smile. “You choose.” The Master, mollified, smiles and squeezes the Doctor’s arm fondly.

“May I fuck you?” He asks, with a little kiss at the corner of the Doctor’s mouth.

The Doctor swallows. “Of course.”

“I’ve missed it so,” the Master admits quietly. “There’s nothing in the universe quite as fine as being in you.” He smiles horribly. “I have looked, you know.” He runs a thumb over the Doctor’s cheek. “You’re impossible to forget, I’m afraid.”

When the Master is in him, the Doctor is too terrified and repulsed to give an appropriately flattering physical response. He tries to focus on how good it feels, because the Master is versed in the Doctor’s body, and the Doctor can tell from a detached perspective that it must be excellent. He tries to remember better times. But the sounds in the video play in his mind and he can’t make himself. He tries to push the part of him that wants this to the fore, but even as he couldn’t make himself stop wanting the Master, he can’t control his want now. It is too true a thing to be lightly turned to show, and just now he remembers that he loves the Master as he remembers any fact, but he can’t feel it, and can’t for the life of him recall why. He shuts his eyes with a wince when the Master reaches down and finds him unmoved. The Master stills, and the Doctor absolutely knows he’s going to be furious. Dreads what he’ll do.

“I’m sorry,” the Doctor chokes out, “I’m sorry, it’s my fault, I’m only—” and hoping, praying it’s what the Master wants to hear, “I love you, I do. Give me time? Please, Master. I just need a little time, and I’ll be fine.”

“Oh Doctor,” the Master kisses the centre of his back, right between his shoulder blades. “Of course you can have a little time.” He starts to move again. “I can accept that it may _take_ time for everything to be,” he pauses to select a word, to give a deep, punishing thrust that has the Doctor gasping, “comfortable, again. And when it is,” he suddenly wraps a hand around the Doctor’s neck and chokes, bending down to whisper viciously into the Doctor’s ear, “you’ll _mean_ it.”

He chokes the Doctor gently and strokes him punishingly until the Doctor is properly hard. Bucking away from the hands at his throat and cock just pushes the Doctor back against the hard length he’s pinned on, and he’s never felt so trapped. The Master fucks him until the Doctor comes around him, gasping for breath through the pressure exerted by the Master’s insistent hand, his vision going black at the edges.

When the Master is done, he doesn’t pull away. He holds the Doctor to him, curling his arms over the Doctor’s stomach. The Doctor suddenly remembers how much he used to love this part. It had made him feel adored. Safe. Other people appreciate the Doctor, and he appreciates the compliment. But they never adore him to that feverish pitch, they never have that kind of intensity within themselves to offer--and even if they did, he doubts anyone else could get the tone quite right. The Doctor had even used to be able to fall asleep like this. He, who turns every bed to a thrashing sea of sheets. But he’d allowed, even encouraged the Master to clutch him like this, all night. Like he’d never let him go.

“What’s wrong?” The Master asks, and the Doctor realizes he’s crying.

“Shh.” Those greedy hands rake through the Doctor’s hair, touching all the skin they can in the guise of comfort. “You’re simply overwhelmed,” the Master tells the Doctor, tells himself, “Anyone would be. Try and sleep, hm?” He kisses the back of the Doctor’s neck. It feels like a brand. “You’ll feel better in the morning, my dear. You’ll see.”

I hate you, the Doctor thinks, wretchedly. I _hate_ you.


End file.
